CHAPTER III. THE NEW BUTLER. Nick Carter did not often confide in a stranger to the extent that he had confided in Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary. One familiar with the habits and methods of the famous detective might reasonably infer that he had some covert motive in doing so, some ulterior object to be attained by secrecy and coöperation with Mr. Rollo Garside, though what it was would by no means appear obvious. Nor, if such was the case, did it immediately appear on the surface. For, after three days, the mystery involving the killing of Doctor Joseph Thorpe seemed to be deeper and darker than ever, with the utmost efforts of the detectives failing to shed a ray of light on the case. Nick Carter had, in fact, found no additional evidence beyond that discovered within an hour after the crime. A careful search later that evening and early the following morning proved utterly futile. None of the windows or doors appeared to have been tampered with, nor was there any evidence that the house had been stealthily entered. Acting upon Nick’s advice, nevertheless, pending further investigations, the coroner found that Doctor Thorpe had been killed by an unknown assailant, under circumstances of which only Mrs. Julia Clayton was informed, and which she then was mentally unable to disclose. Nick thus set the legal machine in operation, and the fact that he was at work on the case satisfied the authorities, the police, and the public that no stone would be left unturned to solve the mystery. Three days, however, brought no observable results. Madame Clayton remained in much the same condition as when the detectives had found her. Memory appeared to have deserted her. Her mind seemed to be a blank, and she was bereft of speech, not once having spoken since Nick first questioned her, despite the persuasive endeavors of her grief-stricken family and professional efforts of the physicians who had been summoned. In the care of a trained nurse, one Martha Dryden, who had had charge of the Clayton infant since its birth, she remained day after day in the same strange condition. Doctor Thorpe was buried on the third day following the murder, the true motive for which none could conjecture, not even Nick Carter himself. On the previous day a new butler, one John Peterson, was employed in the Clayton residence to fill the position of the one who had been married. It was this new butler who answered the bell and admitted Nick Carter about seven o’clock in the evening of the third day after the crime. It was not the first time that he had seen and admitted the detective in charge of the case. “Good evening, Peterson,” said Nick, pausing in the hall to remove his gloves and overcoat. “Mr. Clayton is at home, I infer.” “Yes, sir; he is, sir,” bowed Peterson. “He is alone in the library, sir.” “I would prefer to see him alone, Peterson,” said Nick, a bit dryly. “Very well, sir.” “Is there any change in Madame Clayton’s condition?”